All Your Tomorrows Start Here
by Fikcja
Summary: Neither were in a position to offer more than the present, but, as a certain assassin so astutely put it, pleasures do not come very often and should be enjoyed while they can. A collection of moments shared between Zevran and the Warden.
1. Suppose We Have Only Dreamed

Disclaimer: BioWare owns Dragon Age: Origins and related characters/settings. Some dialogues and settings were taken directly from the game and modified to fit this scene.

* * *

This will be a collection of oneshots, in no particular order, between Zevran and the Warden. Just an idea I had based on the premise of this excerpt from Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things:

"She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon. You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think you know is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood.

"She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here."

* * *

_"__One word, Ma'am," he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain "One word. All you've been saying is quite right, I shouldn't wonder. I'm a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won't deny any of what you said. But there's one more thing to be said, even so. __Suppose we have only dreamed_,___ or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones."_

_—__From ____The Silver Chair____ by C. S. Lewis_

* * *

**Suppose We Have Only Dreamed**

Being able to conjure a single, defining image of someone was rare, and Zevran smiled as a vivid picture of the Warden materialized in his mind's eye. When he thought of her—really thought of her, not just imagined her wet or naked or doing _that_—he always pictured her the same way. She was standing atop a rise, looking out at the sunset. The light set her dark auburn hair on fire and bathed her in its golden glow. Her shadow stretched long and thin behind her, growing ever longer as the sun continued its descent until, eventually, it reached his boots and he looked up. Seeming to notice his stare, the Warden glanced over her shoulder and flashed him a grin before returning her gaze to the horizon.

And in that moment—in her crooked smile, in the brief locking of their gaze—Zevran felt he could see her for all that she was. The Warden: dutiful and strong, the Woman: beautiful and compassionate, the Friend: generous and loyal, the Lover: passionate and exciting. He could see her determination and her indecision. Her hesitance at the strategy table turning to confidence on the battlefield. The dichotomy between her duty as a Warden and her desires as an individual.

Keeping his eyes closed, the assassin found himself thinking back to their first encounter.

"_Good morning, Sunshine."_

_Zevran's eyes creaked open painfully. The female Warden was crouching before him, observing him with something like a detached curiosity. The other Warden—the man whose shield had collided rather painfully with Zevran's chest moments earlier—stood to her right, arms crossed and a menacing scowl on his face. The mage and the dog were watching him intently from some distance away._

"_I rather thought I would wake up dead," he half-joked. "Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet."_

"_That could easily be rectified," she replied, a knife flashing into her hand._

_So she _was_ going to kill him. Looking down the length of the Warden's blade, Zevran was faced with the enormity of the decision he had made. Upon waking, he had foolishly entertained the notion that perhaps he might yet escape with his life. He should have known better. This was what he had signed up for, wasn't it?_

"_Of that I have no doubt," he swallowed, keeping up the appearance of nonchalance. "You are most skilled—"_

"_Relax." Some of his alarm at seeing the blade must have registered on his face, for the Warden smirked. "No point in killing you before questioning you."_

_She nodded to her companions, who adopted increasingly guarded stances. "Your hands are losing circulation," she explained, indicating the bluish tinge to the skin on his fingers. A quick flick of her knife loosened the ropes binding his wrists, but not before he noticed the frown she cast in the other Warden's direction._

_Once his hands were free, the Warden tossed him a waterskin from her pack._

"_Who are you?"_

_Zevran took his time answering, making a show of uncorking the flask and taking a drink. She waited patiently, seeming to expect no less, and he found himself thinking that she was a remarkably attractive woman, despite the blood covering her thigh and the bruise blooming under one eye. Pride at having managed to inflict even some damage on the famous Grey Warden allowed for the return of his customary glibness._

"_My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends," he began. "I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly," he added._

_The Warden quirked an eyebrow. "I'm rather glad you failed."_

"_So would I be, in your shoes," Zevran conceded. "For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn't it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one's budding assassin career."_

"_Seems you chose the wrong career path."_

"_Ah. These things you say, they must drive the men back home simply wild!"_

_He watched with interest as her expression went from amused to detached to… sad? And back to detached before settling, once again, on amused._

"_You have no idea."_

Fascinating.

"_Who hired you to kill us?"_

"_A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was?" Zevran studied her closely, but the Warden's expression gave nothing else away._

_A glance at her male companion showed that neither of them were particularly surprised._

"_But you are not loyal to Loghain."_

_It was more a statement than a question, and Zevran considered the possibility that she knew more about the Crows and how they operated than she let on._

"_Loyalty is an interesting concept." Somewhat discomfited to see the Warden cross her arms, he nevertheless decided to press on.__ "__If you wish, and you're done interrogating me, we can discuss it further."_

"_You must think she's royally stupid," the man snorted, shifting his bulk so that his weapons and armour clinked portentously._

"_Not at all," he smirked. "I do, however, think she is royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous. Not that I think you'll respond to simple flattery," Zevran added, turning back to her, "but there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess."_

"_Why would we ever want your services, elf?" the dark haired witch drawled, stepping forward to glower at him. "You tried to kill us."_

"_Why? Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth to picking locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more… sophisticated… now that my attempts have failed. I could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer—"_

_The man snorted again._

"—_Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors? Besides," he added, "You can't take these sorts of things personally in your line of work, can you?"_

_Amusement flickered across the Warden's face again. She appraised him for some time, though she seemed to be looking _through_ him rather than _at_ him, and Zevran found himself feeling slightly disappointed that her eyes failed to wander over his rather handsome features. Elves were supposed to be remarkably attractive to humans, were they not?_

_Long moments later, just as Zevran was opening his mouth to draw her attention back to him, the Warden's eyes snapped back into focus. With a curt nod, she extended her hand and helped him to his feet._

"_All your tomorrows start here."_

And they had. Though his addition to the party had been met with everything from cool indifference to open hostility, Zevran found he fit in rather well with the mismatched set of companions and the we-could-die-at-any-moment lifestyle they led. He was an asset to their group, certainly, but he had also been quick to realize that he lived _better_ in the Warden's company. Traveling with her gave him a purpose, a reason to try, and what could be more worthy than fighting to end the Blight?

_Whatever it is I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it._

The assassin's smile widened as he recalled the frustration his inability to typecast the Warden had caused. Within moments of meeting her, Zevran had been certain he'd had the woman figured out. The longer he knew her, however, the less she fit into any designated pigeonhole and the more difficult she was to categorize.

"_It occurs to me," he said, falling into step beside the Warden, "that, of your companions, yours is the only name I do not know. What shall I call you, my beautiful, benevolent benefactor?"_

"_The alliteration has a sort of ring to it," she joked._

_Zevran remained silent, observing her from the corner of his eye._

_Sighing, she stopped to face him. She was sizing him up again, wondering whether she could trust him. For that, he couldn't blame her. He met her gaze evenly, allowing her time to consider. And, after what seemed like an inordinate length of time, she relented._

"_Munyn," she said, finally. "You may call me Munyn."_

He'd since refrained from using her given name, however. Partly because her other companions referred to her only as "Warden," but mostly because she had been reluctant to trust him with it. He had not wished to overstep any boundaries she may have set.

Some time later it occurred to him that perhaps he should have addressed her by name from the start. "Warden" only acknowledged one facet of the remarkable woman he had come to admire, the same way his attempt at placing her within certain schemas had only acknowledged singular aspects of her character. He now understood that it was the Warden in her entirety that so captivated him; the Warden in her entirety that he had come to… care for.

So when Zevran felt a soft touch on his arm, he was quick to grasp the Warden's hand and press it to his lips. His words were lost against her leather clad fingers—neither were in a position to offer more than the present, after all—but Zevran was accustomed to taking his pleasures where they could be found, and he had every intention of making the most of their… arrangement for as long as he could.

_I am with you until the end._


	2. In Her Heart the Thunder Rolls

Disclaimer: BioWare owns Dragon Age: Origins and related characters/settings. Some of the dialogue was taken directly from the game and modified to fit the scene.

* * *

"There are a hundred things she has tried to chase away the things she won't remember and that she can't even let herself think about because that's when the birds scream and the worms crawl and somewhere in her mind it's always raining a slow and endless drizzle."

—Neil Gaiman

* * *

**In Her Heart the Thunder Rolls**

The wind howled around the Warden and she shuddered as its keening wail tore through the trees, moaning and groaning and raging against the injustices of the world. Rain fell in sheets around her, slamming against her body with enough force to set her staggering, as she slipped and slid her way across the muddy ground.

Raising her fingers to the cord around her neck, Munyn gently touched the two pendants hanging there. The irony was not lost on her. An amulet given to her by the ghost of her dead father and a vial of darkspawn blood—a chain to a past that no longer belonged to her because of her promise to a future she would not otherwise have chosen—hanging side by side.

The cold metal pressed heavily against her skin, grounding her, reminding her that while her duty might not make things right for her, it could make things right for others. The burden of command, of leadership, of decision-making would be hers to shoulder, and hers alone. She would disappoint people, anger them, and hurt them. They would not understand her intentions, would not understand that she was doing what she thought best for Ferelden, and she would she would shoulder their blame, too.

_We must help them to stay in that beautiful world of their own, lest ours becomes worse._

Thoroughly soaked and chilled to the bone, the Warden turned her steps back towards camp. She was loathe to return to the cold loneliness of her bed, however, and found herself hesitating in front of Zevran's tent, mind wracked with indecision. Light was shining inside, as it was in all the other tents except her own. No one could sleep with the tempest raging outside. But privacy was a commodity on the road and Munyn did not wish to impose on the assassin. After all, he had not come to her that night.

With a sigh, she resigned herself to a sleepless night alone when an accented voice cut through her thoughts.

"You realize I can hear you, yes?"

Startled, she snapped her eyes back to the tent. Zevran was peering out from a gap in the door. He regarded her with some amusement and she realized how ludicrous she must look, clothes soaked and sticking to her skin, hair half plastered to her forehead, half whipping around in the cruel wind. Any other woman would have blushed at being caught in so undignified a position, but the Warden did not embarrass easily. Instead, she flashed him a crooked smile.

"Enjoying the beautiful weather, I see."

"Just trying out your advice," she grinned, spreading her arms and turning to model her drenched clothing.

"When I suggested you incorporate wet shirts into your wardrobe, my dear, I did not think—"

"You don't like it!" She pressed a hand to her chest in mock hurt.

Zevran smirked and raised an eyebrow. "_That_ is not coming in my tent."

"I suppose I should be grateful I'm not a particularly modest person," she laughed, stripping her shirt and pants off quickly. Goose bumps appeared on her skin as a gust of wind nipped at her bare flesh and she looked at him expectantly.

He stared back.

"Zevran…"

"It will drip everywhere."

Rolling her eyes, she set about undoing the fabric that bound her breasts. Thoroughly chilled by this point, her numb fingers fumbled with the ties. Eventually, however, she managed to remove the offending fabric and Zevran opened the tent flap just wide enough for her slender form to slip through before tying it tightly closed behind her.

He tossed her a towel from his pack and motioned for her to crawl under the warm fur blankets. To his credit and her surprise, Zevran didn't once allow his eyes to roam despite having seen her naked on numerous occasions. He seemed almost… wary.

Accepting the spare shirt he offered her, the Warden found herself wondering whether he was following the somewhat ambiguous moral code he'd demonstrated regarding romance or if he was simply concerned that her presence in his tent defied his easy come, easy go designation of their… relationship.

When he remained sitting on the opposite side of the tent, Munyn was inclined to believe the latter. She cursed herself inwardly for imposing.

"Thank you, Zevran," she said quietly, slipping the shirt over her head. It was just a bit too big for her, the shoulder seams slipping too far down her arms and exposing her prominent collar bones, and it smelled like him. She drew her legs up to her chest, pulling the shirt over them, and rested her chin on her knees. Leather, sweat, and the smell of outdoors filled her nose as she looked at the assassin seated across from her.

"Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, my dear Warden," he finally said, "but to what do I owe this pleasure?" As always, his expression was difficult to discern.

"I…" Munyn hesitated. She could say something lighthearted. Or something suggestive. Neither of which would dispel the uneasiness she felt. "The wind," she said, opting for the truth, "it—it reminds me of screaming."

Something in his demeanour changed, then. He seemed to relax and the ghost of a smirk began to play around his lips.

"It does, does it not? Like the shrieks and moans of a beautiful woman as I kiss her… here," he shifted forward onto his knees and leaned towards her, pressing his lips against her bare shoulder. "And here." Her collar bone this time. "And touch her here." Her breath hitched as Zevran's warm, calloused hand slid under the shirt and along her leg.

All of a sudden, as promised, a shriek of laughter escaped Munyn's throat as one hand squeezed her knee and the other pinched her ticklish side. She fell back against his bedroll, laughing, and Zevran dropped down next to her, rolling onto his back and inching closer until their shoulders touched.

The Warden smiled, taking comfort in the press of his warm body against hers. Certain she had imagined the approving, almost… _tender?_ look in his eyes at her admission, she instead chose to focus on the erratic drumming of rain on the tent walls.

"Storms are rare in Antiva," he commented some time later.

"They aren't usually this intense in Ferelden," she said, glancing at him. He was observing her, amber eyes flickering with some unidentified emotion, and the rest of her words came tumbling out before Munyn could even consider how they might steer the conversation.

"The last one I remember is when I was a little girl, maybe six or seven. My brother told me there were giants in the sky, waging war on Ferelden. Then he teased me about being afraid. I really did try to be brave and stay in my room. But when lightning struck nearby and the thunder was so loud it shook the windows, I sprinted to my parents' bed, only to find him already there!"

Zevran chuckled. "You have a brother?" he prompted.

"Yes, Fergus." She didn't bother to correct him that it was past tense.

"He's the reason I learned to fight, actually. After his lessons, he would always show me what he'd learned. One day, his instructor, an old family friend, caught us. I thought I was done for. If my mother found out, I'd have been locked inside learning to sew," she grinned, seeing Zevran's smirk. Her ineptitude with needle and thread had been a joke of sorts among their companions.

"But he just laughed," Munyn continued. "Called me 'Bryce's little spitfire' and told me that if I wanted to play the man I'd at least have to learn to wield a sword properly."

"He taught you well."

Munyn nodded, surprised to see both sincerity and curiosity in his gaze. The idea of Zevran actually being _interested_ in her past life made her smile, despite the uneasiness she felt at sharing memories so close to her heart.

"I was terrible at first. He had a lot of patience." She omitted the part about how, years later, the man she had come to trust, maybe even consider family, had betrayed and murdered everything and everyone she loved. Semi-comfortable silence settled over them as Munyn forced those thoughts aside. Now, lying next to a handsome elf who seemed pleased at having relieved at least _some_ of her former reticence regarding her past, was definitely _not_ the time to draw attention to events she did not wish to discuss.

"How did you become a Grey Warden?" Zevran asked softly.

Fate, however, decided it was.

The question should not have caught Munyn so off guard. She had, after all, opened the proverbial door with stories of her childhood.

"I…"

Thoughts she'd only just managed to tuck away began to flood her mind, and she tensed in preparation of the onslaught.

_Dairren, collapsing with an arrow in his chest… Her mother, grief-stricken and terrified but prepared to fight the men invading their castle… Oren and Oriana, crumpled on the cold floor, dead… Ser Gilmore, valiantly battling against insurmountable odds to buy them time to escape… Her father, lying in a pool of his own blood… Her parents, together, beseeching her to escape the castle with Duncan… Her, just her now, glancing back at the burning castle, knowing she'd left her parents to die…_

Gritting her teeth so hard she thought her jaw might break, Munyn struggled to see past her regret. She was aware she needed to say something, and quickly. Her silence seemed to speak louder than words, however, and she felt Zevran stiffen beside her.

"Ah. I see." His face was a masque again, cool, indifferent.

"Zevran—"

"No more than you are willing to give, remember?" An expression akin to disappointment rippled across his features as he turned away from her, leaving Munyn with the staggering realization that she had misinterpreted his words and intentions entirely.

_I was raised to take my pleasures where they could be found, for they do not come very often. I shall ask nothing more of you than you are willing to give._

She had thought his words cold and unfeeling at the time. Now, she understood he'd been trying to tell her that he recognized she wasn't in a position to make any promises. That, regardless of how things unfolded, he would stay with her as long as he could.

A heavy weight settled in the pit of her stomach as she considered the implications of her misconception. And, lost in thought, the Warden laid awake the rest of the night, listening to the tempest howling and raging around her.

* * *

Chapter title, "In Her Heart the Thunder Rolls," is from the song _The Thunder Rolls_ by Garth Brooks.

The quote, "We must help them to stay in that beautiful world of their own, lest ours becomes worse," is from Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad.


	3. By Any Reasonable Plan

Disclaimer: BioWare owns Dragon Age: Origins and related characters/settings. Some dialogues and settings were taken directly from the game and modified to fit this scene.

**

* * *

**

"Then, one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life... you give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore."

— Neil Gaiman

* * *

**By Any Reasonable Plan**

Zevran watched her from across the fire. She was speaking with Morrigan some distance off, dark auburn hair gleaming in the firelight as an extravagant gesture of her arms caused both women to burst into peals of laughter. The Warden seemed to be the only person Morrigan tolerated. Liked, even. Though he supposed that shouldn't really surprise him.

_Everyone_ liked the Warden.

She was a strong and skillful warrior, a confident and decisive leader, a kind and compassionate friend. She was everything everyone needed her to be.

It seemed to Zevran like a very one-sided arrangement. And, seeing the smile slide off her pretty face as she turned away from the witch's campfire, the assassin found himself wondering what it was that _she_ needed.

"Thinking pleasant things, I hope," she said, raising a delicate eyebrow as she approached him.

Zevran smirked, making a point of raking his eyes over her body. It was unusual for her to be dressed down to only a shirt and breeches, and he certainly wasn't going to miss out on the opportunity to ogle her figure.

"How could I not, my dear Warden?"

"Good. Because I have something for you," she said, dropping onto the ground next to him.

"Oh?" Intrigued, he leaned forward as she rummaged through her pack. Finding what she was looking for, she pulled a slightly wrinkled package from the bag and presented it to him.

"We spoke of the Dalish elves some time ago," she said, watching as he unwrapped the gift. "You mentioned your mother having once been a part of their wandering tribes. They aren't as nicely embroidered as the ones you described having belonged to her, but I thought these—"

"Gloves?" He stared at her. "You're giving me gloves?"

Something akin to hurt flashed across her features, but it was gone so quickly Zevran was left to wonder if maybe he hadn't imagined it.

"If you don't want them, give them back," she said. The Warden was reaching towards him when, all of a sudden, she jerked her hand back, as though in pain.

Zevran stared at her in alarm.

"I'd forgotten how slowly things heal without magic," she sighed, absently rubbing her forearm.

_Ah, the Werewolf bite._

She'd kept the injury hidden from the rest of the party for a surprisingly long time. Not wanting to worry them, she'd bandaged it herself and continued fighting with her usual grim determination. But even after they had convinced Zathrian to end the curse, magic would not repair the wound. Keeper Lanaya was quick to assure the Warden that she would not become infected by the curse, but the only assistance the Dalish elf could offer was a gift of salves to ease the pain and prevent infection.

If extending her arm now, days after sustaining the injury, caused the Warden this much discomfort, he could only imagine the pain she had endured wielding a weapon.

"May I?"

She hesitated, and for a moment Zevran thought she might refuse. But she allowed him to take her hand, regarding him thoughtfully as he bent to examine it.

"This isn't part of your plan, is it?"

"Still have doubts?" he chuckled, glancing up at her.

"No." She met his gaze, dark eyes intense and sincere. She meant it, and he shifted his attention to the dressing on her arm, hoping to hide the thrill he felt at her words. Well, word. But the rest were implied: _I trust you_.

His deft fingers made quick work of the bandage and he studied the wound underneath with interest. "This, my dear, will leave a magnificent scar."

"If only I were a man," she sighed theatrically. "I could bare my battle scars to the noblewomen and woo them with tales of my heroic exploits."

Zevran laughed. "You, my dear, could woo them, regardless. Yours is a beauty that stokes lust in both men and women alike."

"Even with an ugly scar?"

"_Especially_ then."

He brushed a gentle thumb over her bruised skin, avoiding touching the wound itself. Shooting her a questioning look, he reached for the bag she indicated and withdrew the Dalish salves.

Uncorking one of the vials, he scooped up some of the thick, gooey paste and, with great care, proceeded to apply it around the abrasion.

"I'm not made of porcelain, Zevran." The Warden sounded amused.

"You could have fooled me."

He felt, more than saw, her raise an eyebrow. "I'm going to take that as a favourable comment on my appearance and _not_ an insult to my constitution."

Zevran grinned. "See? This is why I like you. Always an optimist."

Finishing with the salve, he secured a fresh bandage around her arm. Not yet wishing to break contact with the woman before him, however, Zevran allowed his hands to linger.

They remained that way for some time, the Warden watching with interest as his fingers explored her hand, alternately massaging and tracing patterns on her palm. He liked that the skin was callused under her fingers and smoother closer to her wrist… Nothing like the artificially soft, oiled skin of the courtesans he usually associated with, and Zevran found himself wondering what those callused hands would feel like pressing against his chest, brushing across his cheek, sliding down his back…

Unfortunately, time had a way of slipping past far too quickly in such moments and all too soon he felt the Warden stirring.

"Thank you," she said quietly, squeezing his hand. For a brief second their gazes locked and Zevran thought she might kiss him, but then she was standing and Zevran found himself feeling somewhat disappointed.

"Wait," he said, remembering the gloves she'd given him. "You don't have to do this. The gifts," he added, seeing her confusion.

"Maybe not," she shrugged. "But it makes the things I _do_ have to do much more bearable."

She smiled at him, then. The expression warmed her eyes, light up her face. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen the Warden smile like that, and suddenly he knew just what she needed and how he could help.

Watching the Warden walk away, a new tally started in Zevran's head: the number of times she smiled, really and truly smiled, _because of him_.

* * *

Chapter title, "By Any Reasonable Plan," is from W. S. Gilbert's Captain Reece: "By any reasonable plan / I'll make you happy if I can; / My own convenience count as NIL: / It is my duty, and I will."


	4. Ends and Means

Disclaimer: BioWare owns Dragon Age: Origins and related characters/settings. Some dialogues and settings were taken directly from the game and modified to fit this scene.

* * *

**Ends and Means**

"All that I did," she said, "everything I tried to do. All for nothing."

"Nothing is done entirely for nothing, said the fox of dreams. Nothing is wasted. You are older, and you have made decisions, and you are not the fox you were yesterday. Take what you have learned, and move on."

— Neil Gaiman (The Sandman: The Dream Hunters)

* * *

"Your own handiwork, I assume?"

"What?" Munyn asked, starting. Sitting on the ground with her back pressed against the log and the fire pleasantly warming her front, the Warden had been lost in thoughts of swordfights in the courtyard and evenings spent curled in her father's lap as he recounted the daring exploits of his youth.

Images raced through her mind—straw haired noble boys sprinting away from her as she chased them with her wooden sword, the proud smile on her father's face as he listened to yet another noble woefully lament her prowess with a blade—as she replayed memories of… what? Her past? Her childhood? Her family? Those things didn't belong to her anymore. Remnants of a previous life. Shaking her head, she fixed Zevran with a puzzled stare as he approached.

"Your hair," he gestured to the uneven strands the Warden was twirling between her fingers. "You cut it yourself, yes?"

"Oh," she pulled the short, dark curls forward to look at them. "To assume makes an ass out of you and me, you know."

An infuriating smirk crept across the assassin's face as he cocked his brow. Munyn balefully returned his stare, but he remained unfazed, crossing his arms and continuing to watch her expectantly until she relented with a sigh.

"With all the fighting and travelling, long hair didn't seem practical."

"So you… _chewed_ it off?"

"It has a lot of nutrients!" she protested, the smile coming easily to her face. Years of practice in her father's court had made it almost automatic, despite the sting of his words. She and Zevran were not so unalike in the fronts they put up, and she found herself wondering if he couldn't sometimes see straight through her.

"Besides," she continued, "I'm a Grey Warden. I can't imagine darkspawn care overly much about my hairstyle."

"But you are also a woman," Zevran pointed out, sitting on the log she was leaning against. "An utterly gorgeous woman. Even with crooked hair," he added.

"I've heard one can't be both."

"Let me disabuse you of that notion, my dear. I have known many beautiful women."

Chuckling, she tilted her head back to look at him. "You know what I meant."

Zevran regarded her with a thoughtful expression. Pieces of stray hair had escaped from his usually immaculate half-braid and were dancing around his face in the breeze. She liked him better this way. With the golden blonde strands framing and softening his features, he looked more real, more genuine… like he wasn't on display.

She almost snorted at the irony.

"May I?" he finally asked, brushing his fingers against her hair. "I assure you, I am quite skilled."

"I…" Munyn hesitated. They would soon be heading to Denerim where her uneven tresses would be sure to draw attention from the nobility, and it really was very comfortable sitting here by the fire. But allowing Zevran to cut her hair would draw her thoughts to the castle and afternoons spent preening with her mother, thoughts which continued to wrench and tear at her heart.

_Our family always does our duty first._

The familiar image of her father, lying wounded in a pool of blood, flashed before her eyes and, as always, duty won out over sentimentality. Too much was riding on her to throw it away because some elitist snob noticed a sloppy haircut.

"Yes, alright," she agreed. "But if you so much as—"

"Do not worry, my dear," Zevran interrupted with a chuckle as he rummaged around his pack. "I am a _professional_. One does not grow up in a whorehouse without acquiring certain skills, yes?" He flashed her a triumphant smile, withdrawing a small blade and fine-toothed comb.

The Warden leaned forward as Zevran's fingers pressed lightly against her back, allowing the assassin to slide in behind her on the log. She felt him shift, then gasped and swore in a decidedly unladylike manner as a jug of frigid water was dumped over her head.

"Zevran Arainai! You—I—argh!"

He only laughed harder at her indignant spluttering.

"You planned this, didn't you?" Her tone was accusatory.

Zevran shrugged, feigning innocence. He could have warmed the water beforehand. He could have tilted her head back to avoid soaking her clothing. But he didn't. Unbeknownst to the Warden, he liked when her usually stoic mask slipped, liked when her eyes sparked and emotion flashed across her face. He especially liked when she cursed and he could imagine what other wicked things she could do with that pretty little mouth.

"The wet shirt really does flatter your figure, my dear Warden," the assassin smirked. "You should wear it more often."

This time she _did_ snort, rolling her eyes and leaning back against Zevran's knees in a way that transferred as much water as possible from her clothing to his.

"I'll take that under advisement."

Comfortable silence settled over them as Zevran turned his attention to what he half teasingly called her mane. It was pleasant, sitting against Zevran's knees as he combed her hair, and Munyn found herself wondering about the lascivious assassin that had blended so well into their mismatched party of adventurers. He was certainly charming, and he'd loosened up somewhat since joining their crew, but his past still remained largely a mystery.

"Tell me a little about Antiva," she asked.

"Oh? You wish to know about Antiva, do you?" He sounded surprised.

"You always refer to your home so fondly. Tell me about it."

"The only way to truly appreciate it would be to go there," he said, skillfully tugging the comb through her hair. "It is a warm place, not cold and harsh like this Ferelden. In Antiva, it rains often, but the flowers are always in bloom… or so the saying goes," Zevran sighed nostalgically.

"I hail from the glorious Antiva City, home to the royal palace. It is a glittering gem amidst the sand, my Antiva City. Do you come from someplace comparable?"

"Of course," Munyn laughed, jumping on the opportunity. "My mother was better than any gem."

"You have me there, indeed!" he chuckled.

"But in all seriousness, no, not really. I'm from Highever, in the North. It smells just like the rest of Ferelden—of wet dog and garbage. Though, I suppose the wet dog overpowers the garbage most of the time," she added as an afterthought.

"You know what is most odd?" he mused after a brief pause. "We speak of my homeland, and for all its wine and its dark-haired beauties and the Lillo flutes of the minstrels... I miss the leather the most."

Munyn's eyebrow nearly reached her hairline. "This I have to hear."

"I mean the smell!" he laughed. "For years I lived in a tiny apartment near Antiva City's leather-making district, in a building where the Crows stored their youngest recruits. Packed in like crates. I grew accustomed to the stench, even though the humans complained of it constantly. To this day the smell of fresh leather is what reminds me most of home more than anything else."

"You sound like you've been away from home forever."

"Oh, not so long, I know. It is my first time way from Antiva, however, and the thought of never returning makes me think of it constantly," he sighed wistfully. "Before I left, I was tempted to spend what little coin I possessed on leather boots I spotted in a store window. Finest Antivan leather, perfect craftsmanship... Ah, but I was a fool to leave them. I thought, 'Ah, Zevran, you can buy them when you return as a reward for a job well done!' More the fool I, no?"

"Your home is still there, Zevran," she reminded him, glancing up at his handsome face.

"This is true. And it is a comforting thought," he smiled, sounding almost… grateful?

Silence once again settled over them as Zevran continued trimming her hair. The rhythmic motion of fingers was soothing and it wasn't long before Munyn found herself lulled into sleepiness. Just as she was about to doze off, however, Zevran's quiet voice interrupted her.

"It… occurs to me that I have yet to properly thank you for… releasing me from the Sloth Demon's thrall."

"The Sloth—? Oh." It took the Warden a few moments to blink away the sleep-heavy fog curled around her mind. Idly, she noted the hand still stroking her hair and the nearly burned out fire. Zevran must have finished some time ago.

"I'm sorry it took so long to get to you."

She felt the assassin shrug behind her. "It is of little consequence. Still, I should thank you all the same."

The Warden's brows knit together in a frown. "Of little consequence? Those men…"

"Vaguely familiar. Though I recall being tied up in an entirely _different_ context."

"I…" Munyn fell silent in her incredulity. She recalled the Circle Tower and the Fade vividly—the hallways littered with dead bodies, the macabre abominations that charged them at every corner, and, most of all, the dream worlds the demon had conjured to trap her and her companions. Each world had been tailored to evoke unique emotions that would enthrall the dreamer and prevent them from seeking escape.

Wynne had been tricked into believing she had failed the Circle of Magi and that all the apprentices were dead. Alistair, on the other hand, had dreamed of a happy, familial life with his sister and her children. But Zevran…

_The moment she stepped through the Fade Portal, Munyn almost choked on the island's oppressive atmosphere. She'd managed to free two of her companions from their nightmares, though they had vanished almost immediately after regaining conscious thought. While unlikely, she hoped their sudden disappearance meant they'd escaped the Fade. That left only one companion, and one island. Zevran had to be here._

_Cautiously, Munyn picked her way further into the dreamscape. She hadn't gone far when the scene materializing before her stopped her cold. Zevran was tied to a stretching rack, his two torturers standing on either side of him._

"_I think I saw him flinch that time."_

_The man's voice made Munyn's skin crawl. She watched in horror as a look of satisfaction crossed his painted features._

"_Maybe." His companion raked critical eyes over Zevran's extended body. "We'll make you scream yet, apprentice."_

"_We're not going to go easy on you, trust me," the first Crow sneered._

"_No… I wouldn't… want you to hold back," Zevran gasped. "I'd be disappointed if you… did."_

"_Zevran!" The Warden cringed at the strain and pain evident in his voice. "Are you alright?"_

"_What… what are you doing here? You're not supposed to be… here…"_

"_I—I need you to help me fight these demons," she said quietly, fighting the urge to rush to his side. Much as his suffering pained her, Zevran had to realize he was dreaming before the demon's spell could be broken._

"_I can't… I need to stay strong. This is my test. I am going to be a Crow… I need to show them I can tolerate… pain."_

_But, try as she might to swallow the ache welling up inside her at his words, something about the hard set of his jaw, the absolute determination to prove himself to these manipulative, cruel bastards, snapped her not inconsiderable resolve. "Don't you remember the Circle?" she cried, "The demon? This isn't real!"_

"_What?" She could see the frown forming on his features as he tried to think through the haze of the dream. "That cannot be, and yet… you speak the truth? I can feel it. Is this nothing but a bad dream? A bad memory?"_

"_Oh, I think he's questioning us!" The man positively crowed. "That's a very, very bad thing to do, isn't it?"_

"_Yes, it is," his companion agreed. "Yes… he will be punished for that." A look of anticipation flashed across the torturer's face. "Severely punished."_

"_No!" Her yell sounded oddly muffled in the heavy air, but that didn't stop the ease with which her blade sank into the Dalish torturer's torso. Neatly side stepping the second man's lunge, Munyn almost managed to avoid the dagger aimed at her ribs before a well-timed sweep of her sword cleaved the demon-assassin's head clean off his shoulders. Deflected as it was by her armour, the dagger had caused minimal damage to the Warden's side and she immediately turned her attention to Zevran._

_Using the stretching rack for support, he was pushing himself up into a relatively upright position. "Well," he exclaimed, half smiling, half grimacing, "that was bracing."_

_Munyn stared. His easy words were a direct contrast to the rigidity with which he moved and certainly unrepresentative of the physical and emotional trauma he had endured mere moments before._

"_Nothing like a good racking, hmm?"_

She had wanted to comfort him, wanted to ask about his nightmare and the other cruelties he'd been forced to endure under the Crows. But Zevran had disappeared just like her other companions and the opportunity had never arisen again. Not that she'd expected it to—she had since come to realize that Zevran shared very little of himself and, in turn, was remarkably respectful of others' privacy. It was actually one of his more redeeming qualities.

"…Alright," she relented, recognizing the deflection for what it was, and felt a gentle squeeze of gratitude on her shoulder. He was being deliberately glib, joking in that light-hearted manner of his about things Munyn suspected weren't really jokes at all.

"Zevran, you know I would never—"

"I know," he interrupted.

"Still, I should not have seen—"

"You are our leader. It seems almost appropriate for you to have gleaned insight into the deepest and darkest thoughts of your companions, no?"

Munyn frowned. "We are the products of our actions, our choices. Not our thoughts."

"Semantics," Zevran shrugged behind her. Silence—this time contemplative—settled over them once again.

"Might I ask of your own experience?" he asked some time later, shaking the Warden from her thoughts.

Her fingers involuntarily rose to touch the pendant—a reminder of her Warden's Oath—hanging around her neck. "It wasn't a nightmare, really. Though I suppose it was as good a dream as any to keep someone enthralled," Munyn reflected. "I was at Weishauppt—the old Warden stronghold. Duncan was there."

"This is the man who recruited both you and Alistair into the Grey Warden fold, yes?"

"You could say that."

"And?"

"He told me the Blight was over; that we'd won."

"Ah." She suspected Zevran was nodding. "He offered you freedom."

"Freedom? I… well, yes, in a way, I suppose he did." Freedom from responsibility, from the burden of leadership. But not from the guilt that gnawed at her heart whenever she thought of her family.

"Too selfless to accept the proffered fantasy, hmm?"

"I was _not_ selfless," she spat, drawing her knees up to her chest. "He offered complacency, not peace." _Everything I've sacrificed, everything I've done would have meant nothing. My parents would have died for _nothing_._

If Zevran was surprised, he hid it well. "Do not sell yourself short, my dear Warden," he said, regarding her thoughtfully. "Perhaps your dream was more… challenging to overcome than you realize."

And with a comforting squeeze to her shoulder, Zevran was gone, leaving the Warden just as deep in thought as he'd found her.

* * *

Chapter title, "Ends and Means" is from Aldous Huxley's famous collection of essays of the same name.


	5. Part of You, Part of Me

So it's been a while. Seems that exams and a lonely Valentine's Day get my creative juices flowing. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: BioWare owns Dragon Age: Origins and related characters/settings. Some dialogues and settings were taken directly from the game and modified to fit this scene.

* * *

"See there's this place in me where your fingerprints still rest, your kisses still linger, and your whispers softly echo. It's the place where a part of you will forever be a part of me."

-Gretchen Kemp

* * *

**Part of You, Part of Me**

Munyn sighed and fidgeted with the tie cinching her dress at the waist. It felt wrong to be wearing such flimsy fabric. Once, what felt like a lifetime ago, she'd enjoyed dressing up in such elegant gowns. Now, she felt exposed. There was nothing protecting her from a knife in the side or an arrow, well, anywhere. There was no wall of armour separating her from the people around her. Shielding her from their hopeful, expectant expressions and careless demands.

Now, it was just her. Still a Grey Warden, still commanding an aura of power and respect, but ultimately humanized. To be spoken and jested with as if she wasn't responsible for decisions that cost thousands of lives. To be touched as though she hadn't seen and done terrible things so they could remain untainted in that beautiful world of their own. To be treated as though she was their friend.

But duty bound her and another assembly of nobles expected their share of smiles and platitudes.

When she reached for the knives and daggers she intended to conceal under her dress, Munyn caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror hanging nearby. The woman staring back looked nothing like she expected and her arms folded protectively across her chest. Kohl-darkened eyes smoldered against her pale skin, tracing the mass of dark auburn curls spilling down around her face and shoulders. The deep green fabric of her dress hugged her petite body in all the right places, while allowing her to move freely and easily access hidden weapons. Though she would have preferred to wear her customary armour, the Warden couldn't begrudge Arl Eamon's seamstresses their work. They had even matched the dress with functional, attractive leather boots that could hide her daggers.

Shaking her head, Munyn turned away from her reflection and resumed strapping a knife to her thigh. So she wasn't encased in a wall of silverite. They were just nobles. Before the Joining stripped her title, she had been one of them. _But that isn't quite true, is it? You stood apart. Your family stood apart. And look what happened._

No. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She wouldn't let herself think that way. Under their expensive attire and cloying perfume, they were people. And they were uneasy. She needed to inspire them. Assure them their courage had all but defeated the Blight that threatened their homeland. Seeing the woman under the battle regalia would encourage them, the arl had said.

But it wasn't long before her gaze returned to the mirror. She looked… pretty. Delicate. Gingerly, she touched the glass, ghosting her fingers over her mirror-self. _Wrong_.

Startled, she jumped as a pair of arms slid around her waist and Zevran's grinning face materialized over her shoulder. He must have sensed something of her thoughts, however, for the smirk faded and he commented on the absence of armour.

"Not as comfortable without plate weighing you down, hmm? It suits you," he murmured, pressing his lips against her neck.

Munyn leaned into the elf's embrace with a sigh.

"This isn't me."

Zevran remained silent for a long time, contemplating her.

"It is a part of you, mi Corazon," he said, finally. "The part I see at camp, in the evening, when you laugh with Alistair and Oghren. The part that worries about Wynne, reassures Lelianna, understands Morrigan, inspires Sten..."

Zevran dropped his chin onto her shoulder and met her eyes in the mirror.

"The part I share my bed with at night and wake to in the morning… The armour only deflects darkspawn swords."

"And intimidates nobles," she half-joked, warmed by his reassuring words.

"Indeed," the elf chuckled. "But I've no doubt you can intimidate them regardless. Yours is a confidence that commands respect in paupers and aristocrats alike."

Silence settled over the pair as they considered the importance of the task before her.

"Thank you, Zevran," she said finally, squeezing his hand in quiet thanks.

He waved away her words.

"I shall see you after the party for a… _celebration_ of our own, yes?" Zevran winked, dropping a kiss on her shoulder, and turned to leave.

"Come with me," she said suddenly.

Zevran froze. She knew him well enough by now to know he was schooling his features into an expressionless mask before turning to face her.

She was asking a lot of him. Appearing in front of Ferelden's nobility would be a public announcement of her relationship with him. Of her relationship with an elf. While talk of their "tryst" certainly abounded, neither they, nor the rest of their party, had ever given credence to the rumours.

Ferelden's elite would be shocked. Scandalized, even. Elves were still largely considered second class citizens in human society, confined to alienages or else serving nobles in exchange for food and lodging. To announce their relationship would be to declare Zevran her equal. It would expose him to the prejudices of her race more than his ears or his weapons or his place in her party ever could.

Drawing a shaky breath, she continued.

"This dress, this hair… these do not feel like a part of me. But you, Zevran, _this_," she indicated their reflection, "does. You will forever be a part of me. Come to the Arl's party," she repeated, meeting Zevran's eyes as she turned to face him. "With me."

"Are you certain, my dear Warden?" His brow creased with an emotion she couldn't quite place. Hesitance. A glimmer of something hopeful. Doubt that she was sincere? "After all, there will be no going back."

"I'm certain."

Stepping forward, the Warden reached her arms around Zevran's middle and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. His breath tickled her skin as he rested his forehead against hers. He still didn't believe he deserved her.

"At your side, mi Corazon..." he trailed off, looking away, and Munyn felt her heart sink. But then his lips crashed almost painfully against hers, his carefully composed mask fell away, and the Warden was faced with a Zevran whose expression said more than words ever could.

Tucking her arm into his, he cast a sly glance in her direction. "If we are to inspire the assembly with our presence, however, there is one more thing that needs to be… _addressed_."

"Oh?" Munyn looked at him uneasily. That tone…

"Whatever shall I wear?" Zevran's laughter mixed with hers, echoing pleasantly around the room.

* * *

"Mi Corazon" is Spanish for "my heart."


	6. Those Tiger Passions

Disclaimer: BioWare owns Dragon Age: Origins and related characters/settings. Some dialogues and settings were taken directly from the game and modified to fit this scene.

* * *

_And if you're lost enough to find yourself  
__By now, pull in your ladder road behind you  
__And put a sign up __CLOSED__ to all but me._

—_Directive_ by Robert Frost

* * *

**Those Tiger Passions Here to Stretch Their Claws  
**

The sword in his hands was heavy, awkward. Rendered impractical by its gaudy ornamentation, it served no functional purpose. Yet the Warden had carried it with her all this time, dutifully sharpening and polishing it beyond any recognizable need.

They had all on its speculated value, of course. Everything from a bizarre Grey Warden relic to a cursed magical artifact that would slay you in your sleep if you failed to perform a nightly ritual. But it was not until the Warden used the antiquated blade to sever Arl Rendon Howe's head from his body that its significance became clear to her companions.

"_Well, look here. If it isn't Bryce Cousland's little spitfire. All grown up and _still_ playing the man."_

_Zevran's eyebrows shot up to his hairline as the man before them, presumably the infamous Arl Howe, sneered at his Warden. He hadn't known she was a Teryn's daughter, though her eloquent speech and mannerisms certainly suggested affluent parentage. Judging by the muffled sound of astonishment beside him, the Warden's family name was a surprise to more than just himself. She'd apparently been quite successful in glossing over personal details, despite the insatiable curiosity of a number of their traveling companions._

"_I see you've not informed your friends of your… heritage."_

"_Grey Wardens hold no titles," she replied coolly. "And, as I recall, we established quite some time ago that I am _not_ a man."_

"_Several times, in fact," he leered, exposing yellowed teeth._

_Zevran's eyes narrowed as the older man swept his gaze over the Warden. Considering the heavy plate she wore, it was too… familiar. Like he knew the body underneath. The Warden's Mabari hound growled low in his throat and Alistair, too, bristled. But to their mutual surprise, the Warden started laughing._

"_This time, the _pleasure _is all mine," she grinned, teeth and eyes flashing dangerously._

"_Ah, is this the part where I lament the monster I've created?" Condescension dripped from every word._

"_Not at all," she smirked, drawing the sword she'd polished so laboriously. Howe's eyes widened as he recognized the flash of House Cousland's blade._

"_This is the part where I kill you." Her grin was all sharp teeth and hard eyes._

"_I will kill you, Howe. Then, I will forget you."_

The Warden was a _Cousland_, the sword a family heirloom. A _noble_ family heirloom. Or, at least, it had been until Howe effectively ended the Cousland line with an opportunistic, and successful, attack on the Teryn's castle. It came as no surprise, then, that his Warden had so painstakingly tended to the weapon until she could exact revenge on the man who had slaughtered her family and destroyed her home.

Now, the blade rested in Zevran's hand. Retrieving it from Fort Drakon had been no easy feat. After its confiscation upon the Wardens' arrest, it had been stashed with countless other weapons deemed "inappropriate" for use by Loghain's soldiers. It had taken Zevran days to determine its whereabouts, let alone plan and execute its recovery. Fortunately, their stay in Denerim was a long one.

Zevran had been successful in rescuing it, and now, with a critical eye, he inspected the sword for any remaining traces of blood or damage. Satisfied he had restored the blade to the best condition possible, the assassin rose to look for the last Cousland.

Unsurprisingly, a quick search of the camp revealed the Warden was nowhere to be found. Since their encounter with Howe and her escape from Fort Drakon, she had spent much of her time away from the concerned and questioning looks of her friends. Loathe as he was to leave the light and warmth of the party's fire, Zevran had to acknowledge the advantage of the resulting privacy. As concerned as his companions were, he suspected their combined, well-meaning inquiries into the Warden's past would cause her to withdraw further still.

Cursing the Ferelden cold, Zevran set off into the woods in search of his night was cool and clear, much like every other night in Ferelden, and it wasn't long before his nose and ears were stinging with cold. Sword and lantern in hand, Zevran increased his pace to stave off the chill. He weaved his way through the trees with practiced ease, picking up on a thudding sound as he neared the clearing his Warden was fond of visiting.

By the time he reached her, Zevran's fingers were almost stiff beyond rescue and he had lost sensation in both ears. Once again cursing the cold, he stepped out into the clearing to see his Warden retrieving throwing knives from the trunk of an old tree. The blades were wedged so deeply in the bark she had to plant her foot against the trunk for leverage to pull them free.

"A little late for target practice, no?"

The Warden whirled to face him, knife at the ready. Recognition stayed her hand, but her failure to detect his presence before he spoke aloud was not lost on Zevran. She was distracted beyond any reasonable level of alertness.

Turning away from him, she distanced herself from her target. "Practice makes perfect," she grunted, one fluid motion sinking the blade deep into the unfortunate tree. The rest followed in quick succession.

Zevran retrieved them. Handing back her knives, he leaned against the abused tree as the Warden take aim. For some time, he observed her as she continued to throw her anger at the increasingly splintered bark. Body tense with myriad unshed emotions and cheeks flushed with exertion, she looked out of place in the otherwise calm and chilly clearing.

"Killing him did not give the satisfaction you expected," he finally said. A statement, not a question. Why beat around the bush?

He did not allow himself to flinch when a blade thudded into the bark mere fingerbreadths from his right ear.

"It did not ease the guilt," Zevran continued quietly, observing her closely.

This time the blade landed even closer. She had deadly accuracy.

"It did not bring them back."

He closed his eyes involuntarily as her arm drew back, but the blade never reached the tree. Instead, a ragged breath tore through his Warden and Zevran opened his eyes in time to see the knives hit the ground.

The Warden's arms wrapped tightly around her petite body, like she was trying to hold herself together. Capable of a commanding presence even without a monstrous suit of plate shielding her, she looked uncharacteristically vulnerable now. Zevran steeled himself against her pained expression as she struggled to suppress the emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

_She needs this._

"There is a legend amongst the Dalish," he continued, "At the beginning of time, there was only the sun and the land. Fascinated by the land, the sun leaned his head close to her body and Elgar'nan was born from the place where they touched. Both the sun and the land loved him dearly, and the land gifted him with a menagerie of plants and animals."

The Warden's breaths were coming faster now, and she turned away from him. Zevran pressed on.

"Elgar'nan adored the gifts and spent most of him time among them. The sun, seeing his happiness, grew jealous of the land's bounty and shone his face upon all the creatures until they burned to ash. The land cracked and broke, crying salt tears of sorrow at the loss. Her tears pooled and became the ocean, while the cracks became rivers and streams."

Her shoulders were shaking. Good.

"Enraged at his father's actions and aching for what he had lost, Elgar'nan vowed vengeance. He battled the sun for an eternity, fueled by his undying rage. Eventually, the sun grew weak and Elgar'nan buried him in the deep abyss of the land's sorrow—"

Finally, a shaky sob escaped the Warden.

"—Without his father, however, the land was plunged into shadow and all that remained to mark the battle were drops of the sun's lifeblood that twinkled in the darkness," Zevran finished softly.

The Warden's shoulders continued to shake violently, though no more sobs escaped her. Once it started, it was some time before all the pent up anger, guilt, and anguish was released through her tears. Zevran waited patiently, however, seating himself on a nearby log and averting his gaze until her grief abated.

When she finally turned back to him, the Warden's cheeks were dry.

"What happened to Elgar'nan?" she asked quietly.

"He was distraught, for a time. And he grieved, for he had lost much. But he learned to find joy in things that arose from the sun's spiteful deed, like the rivers and the stars." At least, Zevran liked to think so.

The Warden was silent for a while, her gaze fixed far away. Zevran wondered whether she was even aware of her fingers rising to stroke one of the pendants hanging around her neck. He recognized it as the amulet she'd received during their search for the Sacred Ashes—the one that was presented to her by the ghost of her father.

Eventually, she came to sit beside him.

"What happened at Highever…"

Zevran waited for her to continue, but she fell silent, shaking her head. Grasping the silvery metal, she gave a sharp tug. The chain snapped, releasing the amulet. For a moment, Zevran thought she might throw it deep into the woods, but she merely squeezed it tightly before slipping it into a pocket of her tunic.

"It seems my list of things to forget just keeps getting longer."

"Perhaps it is less about forgetting, my dear Warden, than remembering the right things," Zevran hesitated. "…You mentioned, once, that your father was inspiring both in his actions and the stories he told. That your mother was as strong as she was kind and your brother taught you everything he knew about swordplay. Grey Wardens do not hold titles, but you are still a Cousland," he pressed the rescued family blade into her hands, "and this is your legacy."

"Oh, Zevran," she breathed, running her fingers along the length of the blade, "You went back for it."

He nodded, watching her hands roam tenderly over each familiar gem and engraving.

"Thank you," she murmured, raising her dark eyes to meet his. "Thank you."

And it seemed to Zevran like her words held the gravity of all they had ever said, or felt, or done. When their mouths collided, her kiss tasted of everything they were.

* * *

Title, Those Tiger Passions Here to Stretch Their Claws, from the poem Unguarded Gates by Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

Dalish legend from the Dragon Age: Origins codex entry, Elgar'nan: God of Vengeance.


End file.
